


I Am the One Lost

by cuniculusmolestus



Series: The Art of Eye Contact [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crying, Daddy Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Face Slapping, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Forced Eye Contact, Hand Jobs, Hannibal Lecter’s excellent therapy skills, Kinda, M/M, Porn With Plot, Season/Series 01, Smut, Therapy Sex, Touch-Starved Will, Will’s shitty father, this is what allen ginsberg would have wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 06:19:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15333687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuniculusmolestus/pseuds/cuniculusmolestus
Summary: Will doesn't like eye contact. Hannibal helps him out with that. That’s about it.





	I Am the One Lost

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like writing smut, and here we are. It is my first time so be gentle, please and thank you! 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_“Because I am in the_

_Power of life & can_

_do no more than_

_submit to the feeling_

_that I am the One_

_Lost_

_Seeking still seeking the_

_trill—delicious_

_bliss in the_

_heart abdomen loins_

_& thighs.” _

\- Allen Ginsberg

**»»————————————««**

“Do you remember the first conversation we ever had, Will?”

There is a blissful period at the beginning of every therapy session when Hannibal and Will catch up on their weeks like friends would. For a moment, it seems normal. But suddenly, like always, it comes to an end, and both men assume the roles that Jack Crawford has demanded of them: Will Graham the willing patient, and Hannibal Lecter the gifted psychiatrist.

Will shifts uncomfortably in his chair, folding his legs and tilting his head to the side, as if in deep thought. Hannibal can’t help but smile slightly, for he knows that Will remembers their first meeting. It was a day neither of them would forget for many reasons, some still to come, no doubt.

“Well, first I told you how I build forts to protect my thoughts that are often deemed distasteful. And then I remember you questioning my aversion of eye contact,” Will answers in a deprecating tone, smiling bitterly at the fancy carpet beneath his feet. “Specifically, you asked whether or not I was ‘fond’ of eye contact, to which you already knew the answer.”

Hannibal thinks back on the day with endless gratitude. Thanks to the perpetual ineptitude of Jack Crawford and his faulty investigation, the world brought the two men together—Will, beautiful and broken, and Hannibal, his trusty paddle to help ease his way through the crashing waves of his stormy mind. Which direction he is pointing Will is beside the point.

“Yes, that sounds about right,” replies Hannibal in a sweet, nostalgic tone, “and do you remember what you told me in response?”

Will, in contrast, does not sound nostalgic, whatsoever. “I said that eyes are distracting, and that I try to avoid them at all costs.” His voice is slow yet somehow unsteady, and every syllable sounds painful rolling off his tongue.

As he finishes recalling the scene in Jack’s office, Will becomes increasingly aware that he has scarcely looked at Hannibal for the entire fifteen minutes he has been at this appointment. It disturbs Will how, even with this revelation dawning upon him like the sun dawns upon the earth, he still cannot bear to look at the man sitting politely in front of him. Hannibal, like always, seems to pick up on his discomfort. Though, staying true to his character, he decides to push a little further.

“What is the prescription of your eye glasses?” the older man asks, seemingly genuine.

Will visibly freezes. He nervously pushes his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose before stuttering out an answer: “Uh, four?” He cringes at the clumsiness of his reply, not meaning to make it sound like a question.

Hannibal uncrosses his legs and leans forward in earnest, his suspicions verified. “Don’t forget that I was a doctor of the body before the mind, Will. I know your vision is average, if not perfect.”

They sit in tense silence. Will is evidently upset, and whether it is directed at Hannibal or himself or both, is hard to say.

“You don’t need to build forts with me, you know that, Will,” Hannibal tells him sincerely, finally clearing the air. “Never with me.”

With that, the doctor places his hand out expectingly, and Will immediately knows what he is waiting for. With a shaky exhale, the younger man slowly removes the useless glasses from his face, folds them neatly, before setting them in the awaiting palm of the man before him.

“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal says, gently placing the glasses down on the table next to him, the sound they make against the glass symbolizing the destruction of an expertly built fort, crumbling to the ground in defeat.

“Eye contact, as you know, is a valuable form of nonverbal communication. And it is thought by many to have a meaningful effect on our social behaviours,” the good doctor explains, looking at Will intently, who has his eyes nearly shut, aimed at the floor.

“I have never been one to master the intricacies of social behaviour on a personal level, therefore I worry little about the effects, meaningful or otherwise,” Will grates out, playing with a non-existent thread on his pants.

“Fair enough,” Hannibal replies cordially, “though it is my duty, as both your friend and acting psychiatrist, to care about how those effects, meaningful or otherwise, affect you.”

Will lets out a humourless laugh, though he is surprised to hear Hannibal call himself his friend. Will has yet to find a word to accurately describe their relationship. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

“You say that when making eye contact you see too much, or you see too little,” Hannibal continues, recalling Will’s own words as though they were his own. “When someone manages to break down the walls of your forts, which do you fear more, the former or the latter?”

“It doesn’t matter what I fear,” Will spits out, lifting his eyes so they are aimed at Hannibal, though he looks straight through him, steadying his gaze at the elaborately decorated wall behind his head, “no one has tried.”

“No one?”

“No one.”

“Tell me,” Hannibal begins, setting Will’s minor outburst aside for the moment, “do you remember looking into your mother’s eyes as a child, or she looking into yours?”

Will nearly throws his head back in frustration, though this was the expected reaction and Hannibal knew it. “Please, doctor, spare me from staring down the barrel of your Freudian lens. You’re better than that,” Will huffs out, folding his arms across his chest and settling further into his seat.

"I would very much like to,” Hannibal assures him, but Will remains sceptical, “which is why I am referring to more recent studies done in Germany, mainly about how mothers influence their child’s nonverbal communication skills in early infancy, including your much dreaded eye contact.”

Will accepts this, momentarily forgiving Hannibal’s lazy psychiatry. “I don’t remember my mother at all,” he retorts, finally giving in. “Nor do I remember my father ever bothering to look me in the eyes, other than when he was reproaching me, of course.”

Hannibal nods thoughtfully, as though Will was saying what was already apparently obvious to him. “And when your father was reproaching you, what did you feel?”

Will shuts his eyes out of habit, knowing well that he is further proving Hannibal’s point by doing so. He states simply: “Fear.”

Hannibal is satisfied. They both have their answer, which remains unspoken between them. Will avoids eye contact for many reasons unbeknownst to many, but primarily because he fears seeing his father staring back at him in any passerby—the empty, disappointed gaze, which reminds Will of the only time his father ever beared to truly look at him.

Will knows it is pathetic, and he knows Hannibal must think so too, so he keeps his eyes glued shut to try and save face.

But of course, Hannibal wasn’t done yet. He probably never would be if it wasn’t for the night quickly falling and Will needing to go home and feed his dogs.

“And how has this affected your ability to be intimate?” Hannibal inquires easily, as though he is asking Will what he had for breakfast that morning.

Will should have known it would end up here, so he doesn’t fight it, no matter how much he wants to. That doesn’t make him any more comfortable, though. Like everything else in his pristine and perfect world, Will is sure that Hannibal has a charmed sex life, full and promising. Will, on the other hand, doesn’t.

(It also doesn’t help that Will is most definitely attracted to his doctor, and fears making himself more undesirable than he already is.)

“Let’s just say that my few sexual experiences have been more transactional than anything else. They fuck me, either with the lights off or with me on my stomach, and once we have both gotten what we wanted, they leave. I don’t think that is what you would call intimacy, doctor.”

Will knows he said too much. It sounded a lot less sad in his head. But it is nonetheless true. It’s not like he has subjected himself to this recently, he wants to tell him. The only intimacy he has now is with his own hand, which he has grown to accept and tolerate. Sometimes even enjoy.

“Fools,” Hannibal says under his breath, and Will isn't sure that he heard him correctly. 

“What?” Will asks, looking up a fraction. 

Hannibal ignores him, recovering quickly. “I would like to do some exercises with you. Exercises that I know you will find both unorthodox and uncomfortable, so I need your full consent.”

Will doesn’t really have to think about it, because he knows he has nothing more to lose. Not anymore. Perhaps Hannibal wanted it that way. “Okay.”

“Good,” Hannibal approves delightfully, smiling in appreciation. “You do trust me, don't you?”

“Of course I do,” Will says quickly, without a second thought.

Hannibal stands up and promptly walks over to Will, who is sitting only two steps away from where the doctor was only a moment ago. He puts out his hand, and Will knows that he isn’t looking for his glasses anymore. He is looking for me, Will thinks. 

Will, slightly apprehensive, takes Hannibal’s hand in his own and rises from his seat—his comfortable little seat that he has actually come to like, where words are just words to regret later. But now their therapy has become more than conversations, and Will isn't going to turn back now. He trusts this man, with all of his heart, though he knows he probably shouldn’t. 

Hannibal brings Will gently up to his feet and ushers him over to the lounge, where they sit down, side by side. Technically, there isn’t much of a change, but it feels different. Here, their knees are just slightly touching, brushing together as if by accident, and they can breathe each other in properly—one might call it intimate. Will brushes those thoughts out of his mind as quickly as they come. He is trying to help you, he thinks to himself, don’t ruin it.

“I want you to imagine that I am your father.”

And it's ruined. Completely and utterly ruined, before it even started. Will can’t help but physically wince and recoil, doubting why he ever agreed to leave his cushy chair where this would have never happened.

“I know it sounds absurd,” Hannibal concedes, taking notice in his obvious revulsion, “but I believe that if you can put your vivid imagination to good use in this exercise, we might be able to heal the wounds left over from childhood.”

Will has no words, even though he knows he only needs one: no. No, no, no, absolutely not. But as he opens his mouth to try and object, Hannibal raises one of his hands towards his face, and suddenly Will’s cheek is enveloped by the warmth of his palm. He can’t help but close his eyes and nuzzle into the embrace, before he can think better of himself.

Hannibal seems pleased at this. For so long he has dreamed of being able to touch Will this way, willingly vulnerable, blooming like a flower under his touch. He rubs the pad of his thumb over Will’s cheekbone, bringing his face up to meet his, slowly but with enough intent that Will feels shivers run down his spine.

Will’s eyes stay firmly closed, as per usual. The mere thought of opening them is so overwhelmingly unbearable that he closes them tighter, pretending that they are somehow stitched shut with string.

“Will,” Hannibal whispers to him softly. Will pretends not to hear him.

“Open your eyes,” Hannibal urges him, somehow knowing his efforts are all in vain. He tries a new approach: “Look at me, _William_.”

And just like that, Will’s breath catches in his throat. Hearing his full name, for the first time in years, certainly has the effect the older man was surely looking for. Will has no choice but to open his eyes and face Hannibal, just like he had no choice but to look at his father in his fits of rage. 

And when he does, Hannibal is looking at him the way he always does, kindly and graciously; and for once, he is looking back. Really, truly, looking.

Just as he expected, Hannibal sees Will’s eyes open wider in what could only be fear, his pupils dilating quickly like the shutter of a camera. He keeps his hand firmly pressed against the curve of Will’s cheek, trying to coax him back to the present, for his tendency is always to slip back into the fortress of his psyche. 

“It’s okay, William,” Hannibal tells him, and Will can feel his warm breath on his face. He nods carefully in response, trying to keep his ugly thoughts at bay while forcefully maintaining eye contact with the man before him.

The more he looks, the more confused his mind becomes. On one hand, he sees Hannibal. Handsome, perfect, consolatory Hannibal. His paddle. The man who occupies his mind so often he worries he might take up permanent residency there. Just thinking of him, may it be at a gruesome crime scene or from the crumpled sheets of his own bed, sends a warm feeling throughout his whole body, filling him with light from head to toe. Hannibal has unknowingly introduced Will to so many feelings he never thought possible of himself, which both scares and thrills him to his core.

But on the other hand, no matter how much he doesn’t want it to be so, he can’t help but see his own father. The power of suggestion is a handy tool carved for silent destruction. Will wonders if this is what psychic driving feels like, but thinks better of himself. Now, the two men do not resemble each other in any sense, but their eyes share similar characteristics: sometimes appearing dark brown, other times showing hints of green, but always intense and hard to look away from. 

Somehow Hannibal has gotten exactly what he wanted, and Will is brought back to his childhood bedroom, where he would once hide and wait for his drunken father to stumble into his room and rail on him for whatever reason he thought fit. He remembers it all so clearly it almost seems tangible: the light blue paint chipping off the poorly lit walls, his single bed that was too small to fit his entire body after puberty hit, even the book shelf he got as a birthday present one year that he kept stacked with stolen library books. Even now, he can still recall the way he tried to avoid his father’s wrath, sometimes pretending to be asleep or locking himself in the shared bathroom across the narrow hallway of the upper floor. Though it never worked, no matter how early he put on his pyjamas and turned off his bedside lamp. There was no escaping him, no matter how hard he tried. 

His father’s booming voice painfully rings through his head like he spoke to him only seconds ago: _What were you thinking, William? Why do you insist on defying me? I knew we should have sent you off to school when we had the chance. Thank god your mother isn’t here, or else she would be so disappointed in you._

_Don’t you look away from me when I am talking to you, William. Do you hear me?_

_“_ William?” Hannibal tries to get his attention back, and Will knows by his voice that it wasn’t the first try. “Do you hear me?”

Will nods his head, breaking the eye contact momentarily to examine his surroundings. Hannibal allows it. Will is incredibly relieved to be back inside Hannibal’s office where he is safe, where he doesn’t have to build forts or navigate his mind alone. Hannibal is here, and he is looking at me, and I am looking at him. That’s what matters. That’s all that matters. 

“You’re doing well so far, William,” Hannibal says with a smile, his voice sounding lower than before. “I am proud of you.” 

As the words leave his mouth, Hannibal brings his hand up from the side of Will’s face and into his hair, brushing the stray curls back from his forehead. At this moment, Will feels the final wall of his last standing fort falling; though it is not his father who has come to sack the city, but kind and gentle Hannibal coming to pick Will up out of the rubble. 

Will doesn’t have time to realize he is crying before he is leaning forward and pressing his lips against Hannibal’s. 

Now it is Hannibal’s turn to be shocked. Will shuts his tear-stained eyes and closes the gap between them, meanwhile Hannibal’s eyes stay alarmingly open as he receives the initial kiss. Not to say it is unwelcome, just unexpected. But everything with Will is unexpected, and that’s what he loves so much about the man. What he finds so utterly intoxicating. No matter what Hannibal might do to manipulate him, what Will inevitably becomes in the future is ultimately beyond his control. The thought excites Hannibal immensely. 

Hannibal must have remained frozen for too long, because Will pulls back quickly. He doesn’t have any time to say anything before Will’s eyes are filled with tears again and he is stumbling out words in heartbreaking desperation. 

“Kiss me, please,” Will rushes out, cheeks flushed pink as he looks into Hannibal’s eyes so intensely it almost becomes concerning. “We see each other now. You are proud of me, like you said, so please just kiss me. I need it.” 

Who is the good doctor to deny a patient what he needs?

Quickly recovering, Hannibal takes control of the situation once more and kisses Will for the second time. Will, infinitely pleased, lets out a muffled moan as the two begin to fall into an intimacy that neither of them could have ever anticipated. At least not so soon.  

Hannibal now has both hands placed on either side of Will’s cheeks, bringing their faces closer together until it was no longer physically possible. Closing one of his fists around a patch of dark curls located at the nape of his neck, the older man tugs at Will’s hair until his mouth falls open in a gasp, then proceeds to take the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

Will’s head is spinning, but he can’t remember a time he has ever felt so centred, so right.He should have known that Hannibal would be good at kissing. Like he said himself earlier, he was a doctor of the body before the mind. And just like he knows how to ease Will’s mind like nobody else, he knows the doctor will be just as good as pleasing his body. Playing him like one of his finely tuned instruments. The thought makes him let out another soft moan.

Slowly removing his mouth from Will’s, Hannibal begins peppering kisses to Will’s eyelids and the skin underneath where the tears still can’t help but fall. This is the first time today that the younger man realizes that he actually is crying, but the way Hannibal presses his lips to his face leaves no room in his mind for embarrassment. He lets the older man wipe his tears, kissing them away like his father and mother never did, not even once. 

Suddenly Will feels Hannibal pressing his back against the plush couch, lying down together as the latter continues to press kisses down his face, jawline, and finally his neck. The feel of Hannibal’s weight on his body is euphoric, and he is ashamed at how quickly he arcs his back and bucks his hips, trying to feel more of it pressed against him. Hannibal only laughs into the curve of his neck where he is nipping and sucking, and Will’s eyes roll back, feeling the vibrations against his skin. 

Will brings his hands from where they were gripping the sides of the lounge to the back of Hannibal’s head. He gives his positive feedback by running his nails down Hannibal’s back through his suit jacket as well as holding onto his blonde-silvery hair. Will can begin to feel the marks being left on his skin as Hannibal decorates his neck with spots of red and purple. He doesn’t even think about how he might cover them up so Jack doesn’t ask any questions at work tomorrow. 

Satisfied with the claim he has left on Will's skin, Hannibal kisses his way back up Will’s neck and begins to kiss his mouth again, and this time it feels more filthy and promising than the last. Just as Will continues to lose himself in the feeling of Hannibal’s tongue slipping in and out of his mouth, he feels a large hand cup the space in between his legs. 

“Oh!” Will lets out suddenly. Hannibal pulls back from the kiss and looks down at the younger man laid out so perfectly underneath him. Hannibal, with a big smirk on his face, continues to massage and palm Will’s dick through his pants, which is hardening quickly underneath his fingers. 

Will bucks his hips again, trying to receive more desperately needed friction, suddenly remembering how good it is to have somebody else’s hands on you rather than just your own. Especially Hannibal Lecter’s hands, which are doing a superb job at undoing Will with only a few touches. 

Hannibal keeps looking at Will as he teases him through the fabric, and Will tries his best to keep the eye contact before shutting his eyes in pleasure.  

Then it stops. 

Will’s eyes spring open. “Why’d you stop?” he protests pathetically, his voice breaking halfway through the question. 

Hannibal shakes his head and tuts in feigned disappointment, though it cuts through Will as if it were real. “You were doing so well before, William,” he professes, entirely composed. “The more you keep eye contact with me, the better it gets. If you stop, so do I. Understood?” 

Will lets out a childish whine that he can’t seem to help. He is having a hard time reconciling how much he both hates and loves Hannibal right now. Will shuts his eyes for a split second in frustration before he feels a hand slap him across his face. 

“I repeat,” Hannibal reiterates firmly, rubbing and soothing the spot where he just struck Will. “Understood?” 

Will’s eyes are now locked on Hannibal’s and he doesn’t even think of moving them. All he can think about is how aroused he is at what just happened. 

“Yes, sir,” Will utters in a small voice, though he means every word. “Understood.” 

Hannibal presses a soft kiss to the tip of Will’s nose before leaning back and smiling with pride. “Good boy.” 

Will, adhering to the agreement, is maintaining eye contact with Hannibal so intensely that he doesn’t see the hand undoing is fly before it’s too late. Will’s mouth falls open as Hannibal pulls down his pants just enough to reveal his cock, hard and heavy against his clothed stomach. 

Hannibal, also adhering to the agreement, is maintaining the eye contact with Will even as he brings his hand to his mouth, licks it from his wrist to his fingertip, and brings it back down between Will’s legs to stroke him. 

“Oh _god_ ,” Will moans, wanting more than anything to let his eyes roll back inside his head where they long to be. But he cannot. Will not. For if he does, he knows Hannibal will stop and leave him there in his lewd state. So he keeps his eyes locked on the man above him, trying to stay composed as he is touched for the first time in months, maybe even years. 

“You’re doing so well, William,” Hannibal gushes proudly, rewarding him by increasing the pace of his hand. “Perfect boy.” 

Between Hannibal’s expert hand job, hearing his full name, and the endless praise falling from his lips, tears start to fill in Will’s eyes again. This time he does get embarrassed, and a blush breaks out across his face. Hannibal kisses Will over and over again, letting Will know that it’s okay. 

As they kiss, both of their eyes momentarily shut, and Will can focus on what his happening below his waistline. Hannibal ceases the stroking for a split second, bringing his thumb to rub the tip of his cock, which is wet and leaking. At that moment, Will throws his head into the crook of Hannibal’s neck, sighing and cursing into his flesh. Hannibal whispers back, shushing him, reassuring him, kissing him, all before pushing Will back against the couch.  Hannibal's eyes return to Will's while Will's return to his. 

As the younger man attempts to regain whatever composure he has left, Hannibal lifts his hand off Will’s cock and it doesn’t return, much like before. 

“No, no, I didn’t look away!” Will cries out, visibly frustrated because Hannibal obviously knew how close Will was from falling over the edge completely. 

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, amused at how easy it is to make Will lose his mind with one simple hand job. “Patience, William,” he responds to his anguish in a tone that makes Will feel more like a child than ever. “I said that if you maintain eye contact, which you have so well, then it would get better for you.” 

Before Will can continue his complaining, Hannibal swiftly crawls down his body and takes Will into his mouth, never once breaking their eye contact. Will watches Hannibal as he licks a fat stripe up his cock, and then closes his lips over the head, licking and swallowing the sticky precum building there. 

Keeping his eyes open by some miracle, Will lets out a strained cry along with a string of profanities as Hannibal starts sucking him fervently, bringing him back to the edge in record speed. 

“Hannibal,” Will starts to say, but both men know what’s coming, for they can see it in each other’s eyes.

Digging his nails into Hannibal’s back and scalp, not remembering how or when they got there, Will stutters out breathlessly while moaning: “I-fuck,  _oh my god_ , I’m gonna…” 

Will tries to warn Hannibal, expecting him to pull off in disgust and let him finish on his stomach like any other normal person would. But Hannibal, of course, is not a normal person. He is a gentleman, even when it comes to obscene acts.

Showing no signs of backing off whatsoever, the older man doubles down. Will watches Hannibal, and vice versa, as he takes Will so deep into his mouth that he feels the tip of his cock hit the back of the doctor’s throat. Will let’s out one last cry as he begins to cum, and Hannibal swallows all of it, sucking him until the aftershocks wear off.

Even when it’s all over, and Hannibal releases Will from the warmth of his mouth, Will doesn’t look away. For once in all his life, he needs the eye contact to remain, in fear that Hannibal might slip away from him if he were to look anywhere else. The idea is unspeakable. 

Hannibal moves to become eye level with Will, looking at the younger man as he tries to catch his breath. He places his hand on Will’s chest which is rising and falling in perfect rhythm, feeling his heartbeat quicken under the touch. With his other hand, he wipes the sweat and remaining tears from Will’s face, who smiles at him in thanks and adoration. 

Hannibal is the one who breaks the eye contact first, swooping down to kiss Will breathless once more. Will melts into the other man, and his eyes flutter shut. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and criticisms are more than welcome.
> 
> Come find me on instagram! @cuniculusmolestus


End file.
